


Like a Bow

by Calaphrass (SexyStripedTie)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (mild), Bisexual Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Come Inflation, Come as Lube, Graphic Description, Knotting, M/M, Noncon with physical arousal, Painful Sex, Rimming, Spit As Lube, Werewolf Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SexyStripedTie/pseuds/Calaphrass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine a story without pre-established wincest where they’re hunting a werewolf, and Sam goes off alone (thinking he’s going to be safe, because it wasn’t like they were actually <i>hunting the thing</i>, yet, christ, they’d just rolled into town and he was just <i>grabbing them a bite to eat</i>). Except what do you know, Sam turns the wrong corner, and the werewolf does get the jump on him. </p><p>Sam makes it back to the motel room and manages to get Dean to tie him up, but after that, things go south fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Bow

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE NOTE: This whole fic is a vividly described, completely nonconsensual situation. It's not dubcon. There is no consent, even though Dean does reach orgasm. For those who came here to read that, enjoy! For those who aren't sure if that's their thing: tread carefully. For those expecting something lighter: tread _very_ carefully.**

Stage 1) Sam turns the wrong corner, and the werewolf gets the jump on him.

 

Stage 2) Sam very literally stumbles back into the motel room fifteen minutes later, breathing heavy, bruised, _bloody_ , eyes blown wide and trembling a little because he knows, he _knows_ what this means, and the only thing he can get out after Dean rushes to his side, equally scared, and Sam recoils away from the touch, is “I got bit”.

 

Stage 3) Dean, of course, is _adamant_ that they’re going to find a way out of this, because they always do, it’s what they _goddamn do_.

 

Stage 4) Except what do you know, Sam does turn.

 

It wouldn’t be immediate. There’d be a good portion of time there before he _really_ turns, where he’s starting to feel _weird_ in a whole lot of ways but still has control. Still has say over his mind. One of the first things to show up is a heightened sense of smell. He’s getting these _urges_ , too, these urges that he’d never admit out loud, that he’d hardly even let himself _think_ in the light of day and yet _here they are_ , pushing themselves into his conscious and he can barely even stop them. Bad urges. Really fucking carnal urges. Dirty urges, _wrong_ urges, all involving his _brother_.

 

And they just get stronger by the minute. And pretty soon Sam’s freezing, looking sick, looking _horrified_ , realizing, holy shit, he just might actually follow through on these urges if Dean doesn’t tie him down _right fucking now_.

 

So he tells Dean as much, whilst omitting the most vital and incriminating details.

“You better tie me up tight,” and, “I’m serious Dean, tie me up _good_.”

And there’s this weird fear in Sam’s eyes that Dean doesn’t understand, because yeah, fear over killing innocents is one thing, but there’s this _edge_ to Sam’s voice he hasn’t heard before, and something about it makes Dean’s spine crawl.

So he does. He ties Sam up good.

 

And Sam, of course, continues to change. He’s still in control, but Sam can _feel_ that control slipping. He starts sweating. He starts breathing harder. He tugs at the restraints. There are a few moments, too, where something slips through, something foreign and unnerving to Dean, where Sam just _looks_ at him, and it’s the _way_ Sam looks at him that makes the hair on his neck stand on end. He can’t tell what emotion Sam’s feeling, exactly, but a little later on Dean does recognize part of the expression, and when he does, it’s fucking terrifying seeing it there: the look is _predatory_.

 

And then, Sam does something really goddamn manipulative, and Dean falls for it completely. Sam feigns pain. He sucks in a breath, shudders, curls in on himself, lets out a noise like a wounded animal that’s just distinctly _Sam_ enough to really freak Dean out, and Dean should have realized something was wrong, should have realized _that’s not part of the turning process_ , but he doesn’t, because _Sam’s in pain_. He’s over in an instant, getting way too close, getting right up in there in Sam’s space, foregoing safety completely because _something’s wrong_.

He honestly doesn’t register the next few seconds, except for rope snapping and something huge and _heavy_ slamming into him and the world tilting sideways.

 

“You smell _delicious_ ,” is what he hears next, right up next to his ear, right up near his _neck_ , too close, _way too fucking close_ , and he can’t _move_ , because _Sam’s pinned his goddamn hands down_.

Shit. _Shit_.

And so of course, Dean being Dean, he copes the only way he knows how.

“Gross, Sammy, c'mon. Friends don’t eat friends.” It comes out confident, languid, _teasing_ in a brotherly way, except there’s a thin vein of fear in his voice he can’t shove down and honestly? He’s scared shitless. And he’s pretty sure Sa– _whatever Sam is now_ knows it too.

Except then Sam. _Sam_.

He makes this weird, freaky _purring_ noise, and Dean’s brain temporarily shorts, because wait, aren’t werewolves a _dog_ thing? _Why is he fucking purring_?

“Wasn’t what I was planning on.”

And that? That honestly takes Dean a few seconds to get.

 

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Dean goes stone still, then, his breath frozen in his chest, the words echoing in his head, bouncing around, like something’s snapped, like there’s a short or something, and they just won't compute because-- _no_ , _no fucking way_.

"Sam?" His lungs feel like lead. It comes out uncertain, small, horrified and doubtful, and then Sam's-- Sam’s-- he’s _licking_ , _right underneath the shell of his ear_ and Dean sucks in a breath, sharp, ice cold, jerks ineffectually underneath his brother, but he _can't move_ , he _can’t--_ " _Sam_."

There’s real fear in his voice.

But Sam just _hums_ , languid and content and pleased in some sick, dark, fucked up way and then he nuzzles _lower_ , grip vicelike, breath hot on Dean’s neck, and Dean's heart feels like it might just burst out of his chest as Sam leans forward, pressing his _lips--_

"S-Sam, jesus, stop!"

Sam wasn't listening.

Dean turned his head to the side, not to goddamn _accommodate_ but to look away, to grasp desperately at the inch or two of space available to him, to breathe, sharp and shallow, as his gut clenched with nausea, because this-- this wasn’t Sam. _This wasn’t Sam_.

A low growl seduces him back to the present.

"Why don't you make me." And then Sam _bites_. Not enough to break the skin, _almost_ enough to break the skin, enough to make Dean shout, and Dean chokes down another noise, _writhes--_

And Dean, he tries. He really does.

He kicks out, twists, throws all his weight into it, and for a half a second he thinks he _might_ have accomplished something, that maybe, _maybe_ , if he bends _just right_ and hits not-Sam _just there_ \-- but then he’s hitting the floor hard, painfully, getting the wind knocked out of him _worse_ this time, and it takes him half a second for it to consciously dawn on him why.

 

He’s on his stomach. Sam flipped him onto his stomach. Sam was _behind_ him, on top of him, and Dean was on his stomach.

“That’s better.” Sam says, smug and feral and satiated. And Dean? Dean might actually throw up.

"S-Sam. Sam, man, come on, I know you're in there some-- _where_!" His belt snapping breaks off his sentence. And then Sam yanks his hips up, and Dean scrabbles at the ground, because no, _no_ \--

He chokes down a cry-bordering-on-sob as his pants are all but ripped off. And then Sam’s back at his ear, too close, breath hot, _everything_ hot, and Dean can’t even flinch away.

"Come on, it's not the first time you've been in a position like this," he all but fucking _croons_. Dean nearly chokes.

" _What_ \--"

"Not as subtle as you think you are," he grunts. And-- and you know, if Dean wasn’t already fucked up over _everything else happening right now_ , wouldn’t that just be the icing on the cake. Because fuck. _Fuck_.

 

Then Sam’s moving again, grabbing Dean’s wrists, wrenching them behind his back, and of course-- of fucking course he struggles, he tries to fight, he _bucks_ , but now his muscles are screaming at him, they _hurt_ , and there’s a thick, jagged lump in his throat that’s hard to breathe around and he can feel a fucking breeze on his thighs, and so if Dean doesn’t wrench himself around as violently this time _fucking sue him_.

Or at least, that’s his stance until two seconds later.

Because two seconds later, Sam’s _fingers_ \-- they’re behind him, low, really low, tracing up over his boxers with a sickening sensuality, touching the one scant-ass piece of clothing he has left, the one barrier keeping his ass from the world, from _Sam_ , and dipping underneath them, _yanking them down_ \--

“ _No_!”

But it’s too late.

Sam growls again, sounding _hungry_ this time, and Dean flushes _hard_ , goes painfully red, can’t breathe _,_ his breath coming fast and dizzy and making him lightheaded so fast he almost doesn’t notice the next thing Sam does. _Almost_ doesn’t. _Because who the hell wouldn’t notice slow, hot breath against the cheeks of their ass_.

“Sam,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, paralyzed, breathless, because this-- intimacy-- _sex_ \-- that was one thing, but _this_ \-- “Sam, you’re not gonna--”

 

Apparently, he was gonna.

 

Sam gets his face in there -- Sam gets his face up in Dean’s _ass_ \-- and _licks_ , a long, broad, hot, _wet_ stroke, and Dean jerks underneath him, violently, shuddering and shouting out like he’s been whipped, because _oh, fuck, oh god--_

“ _Sam--!_ ” Sam drags his tongue across Dean _again_ , moans carnally, and _tongues him harder_ , verging on-- christ, verging on tonguefucking him, verging on actually sinking inside, and Dean shouting turns into a strangled, breathless cry, his chest pistoling up and down as he thrashes so hard he feels sweat beading. Because _fuck_. “ _S-Sam, fuckingnnngg--!_ ”

And then Sam does push inside in one too-warm, spit-slick glide, and Dean twitches, chokes, his mouth falls open but he loses all verbal function, because _Sam_ , because _his baby brother_ , because _Sam’s tongue is in his ass_ and it feels like he’s been gutted and there’s some stomach-churning, horrible _heat_ stirring to life inside him too, one that he can hardly acknowledge, one that’s familiar and he _knows_ that sends cold dread pooling in his gut, in his veins, _everywhere_ , because no, _no_. Not now, not with Sam. _Not like this_.

 

By the time Sam pulls back, satiated with his work, lips red, his brother trembling and tense with exhaustion and adrenaline, Dean’s loose and pliant and wet and _hard_ and more sick and ashamed of himself than he’d ever been in his entire fucked up life. Because this wasn’t hot. This was _sick_. This was wrong, it was horrible, it was a goddamn _nightmare_ and the only saving grace was that when Sam woke up tomorrow he wouldn’t remember a single freaking moment of it.

He hears a zipper being undone, denim being pushed down, and he knows, he _knows_ this is going to hurt like a bitch, hurt worse than a bitch because _spit isn’t lube_ , but _what can he do? What the fuck can he do?_

A noise catches in his throat when he actually _feels_ a hot, slick something press and slide against the entrance of his ass, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the wetness in them. His hands are numb.

“Not like this, Sam. Please.” It’s a whispered plea.

Sam nudges his hips forward. Dean sucks in a shuddery, shaky breath as he feels pressure, and then more pressure, and then feels himself opening slowly around-- around _Sam’s_ \--

“ _Sammy.”_ Begging, now. _“Not like this._ ”

Sam fucks half his cock into Dean in one sharp, careless, fluid motion, and _now_ Dean feels the pain. It’s a miracle the noise he makes doesn’t draw any neighbors.

 

It hurts. It _hurts_. Not-- not like a hunt gone wrong, not even like his first time, which is fucking _bizarre_ because _his little brother is a lot bigger than his first fuck_ , but it _hurts_ and now, _now_ he feels gutted, _now_ he feels fucked open and raw, _now_ he feels-- feels--

What was-- _how the fuck was he so wet?_ Sam’s pulling out, rocking himself in, pushing _further_ , fucking him deeper, and all Dean can think about over the sick, sharp, nauseous bloom that’s settled low in his chest is _why doesn’t it hurt more?_ He knows bullshit hentai tropes. He knows how real sex works. And then something dawns on him. He can’t exactly turn to face Sam, but he can tilt his head, and he _does_ , and his voice is raw but he gets the question out.

“Are you-- did you--?” _Did he just come_? Because it was the only thing he could think of that might make things… _smoother_ , even if it made no sense ‘cause Sam hadn’t even _paused_ , but not-Sam only snarls and leans forward and presses him harder against the floor by the neck in response -- his shirt slides up, exposing his midriff, and the new angle makes his own flushed cock bump against his stomach with each thrust, and _fuck_ \-- and _yeah, okay, he definitely hadn't come, then. He was definitely still going._

 

Dean grunts against the dirty motel floor as Sam pistons inside him, rocking him, thrusting him forward, each fever-hot glide stretching him further and stirring up newer, biting pain, until finally, _finally_ , Sam gives one last, final surge (Dean gasps roughly, worn to the bone), and he’s _in_ , he’s pressed up inside him to the hilt, Dean’s _full_ , way too fucking full, and Sam’s balls slap against his ass like some particularly filthy note of punctuation at the end of a fucked up sentence. Dean shudders. Sam _purrs_.

And _then_ \-- then. Dean thinks maybe he’s imagining things. Thinks maybe he’s hallucinating. Thinks, at first, maybe he’s finally fucking cracked, because his brother’s a _werewolf_ , his brother’s _fucking him_ , his brother’s _balls deep inside him_ , but no, no, Sam’s--

Dean jerks underneath Sam, panic rising, because _what-- what the fuck--_

Sam’s getting _bigger_.

“S-Sam, you’re--” Sam shoves himself one last, impossible inch deeper. Dean can’t breathe. “ _Sam_!”

There’s pressure, and then more pressure, and then _more_ pressure, and Dean thinks he deserves props for not _losing his fucking mind_ , because _what the actual FUCKING fuck-- he can’t-- Sam’s-- oh god, Sam’s--_

Sam’s coming. Sam’s coming a _lot_. It’s pouring into him, Dean can _feel_ it gushing, filling him, slick and warm and wet, and where his cock had been brushing his prostate before, now it was _pressing_ , hard, harder, relentlessly, and Dean, he can’t-- he _can’t--_

" _Ah--_ god, _fuck_ , stop, _stop_ \--"

He comes, hard.

 

He’s a trembling, shaky, unresisting mess by the time it’s over. ‘Cause it hadn’t been over after Sam came. It hadn’t been over after Dean had been wrung dry and come the first, second, or even _third_ time. It’d been over after what felt like ages, after he’d been pumped full of so much come he swore he could feel the weight of it in his belly, after Sam-- after Sam actually _could_ pull out, because for a while there he was just _too freaking big_. His knees felt skinned. His entire body radiated a bone-deep ache. When Sam finally pulls out in one long, wet slick of movement and releases his hands, Dean doesn’t move, just lets them drop to his sides and then stays there, face pressed against the floor, _breathing_ , eyes almost shut but not quite, letting the quiet wash over him. Because what was the point. It was already done. And besides, he wasn’t entirely convinced he _could_ move. Not yet.

He’d have to move before morning. Before Sam changed back. But he could do that. He’d have to do that.

Walking might be a different matter, but he’d think of something. He’d have to think of something.

 

**Author's Note:**

> _Notes on the sexual content (since it was Dean POV and so not all parts were super clear): The sex in this is based on the mechanics of canine sex, since Sam’s gone werewolf. Sam’s also leaking a ton of precome, and that’s what makes it a smoother ride for Dean._
> 
> Check out the rest of my stuff over at [my Tumblr](https://sexystripedtie.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked, please consider commenting/leaving kudos. xx


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